


Swerve's Swinger Soirees

by Gourmet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Consensual Sex, Exhibitionism, Fingering, Gangbang, M/M, Sticky Sex, Swingers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gourmet/pseuds/Gourmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The reprieve was brief this time. He’d had nearly a breem between Whirl (the claws gave it away) and Swerve (his second round, but still chattering the entire time). So after Swerve had jetted transfluid over his aft and the backs of this thighs, Rodimus had listened to his voice, still running fast and loud, retreat back to the bar, presumably, and assumed a break."</p>
<p>AKA a response to a tumblr convo "remember you said something about Swerve opening the bar after hours to couples and it'd be like a swingers thing where they can come and fuck???"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swerve's Swinger Soirees

**Author's Note:**

> i am. so sorry. written entirely based on a conversation that did not concern me on tumblr on [rubthosefags](http://rubthosefags.tumblr.com)'s blog. part of that conversation and the original post for this is [here](http://snowfellafterdark.tumblr.com/post/97121526710/hello-it-is-red-remember-you-said-something-about).
> 
> _remember you said something about Swerve opening the bar after hours to couples and it'd be like a swingers thing where they can come and fuck??? And I said Magnus would be against him and Roddy going??? Consider this: Magnus agrees to go and Roddy is so happy. When they get to swerve, Roddy takes off his panel and Magnus bends him over the table and ties him there, leaving his valve on show. Magnus gets a drink before sliding in and facing roddy while mechs can come up behind_

**Swerve's Swinger Soirees**

The reprieve was brief this time. He’d had nearly a breem between Whirl (the claws gave it away) and Swerve (his second round, but still chattering the entire time). So after Swerve had jetted transfluid over his aft and the backs of this thighs, Rodimus had listened to his voice, still running fast and loud, retreat back to the bar, presumably, and assumed a break. The joints in his arms and shoulders had started to ache from the angle he was tied down at, and his entire interface array was humming with hypersensitivity. He hadn’t been able to cycle any cool air through his vents in joors, it seemed like. Not when he was running so hot. And that said nothing of the mechs that had been lining up to take their turn with the captain.  
  
Rodimus’s vocalizer hitched into something high and thin when heavy hands curled their way around the fronts of his thighs, pulling them apart and hitching him further up the table. His pedes lost purchase with the floor, and a frame-wracking shudder ran through him when the other bot stepped closer, grinding the ridges of an already pressurized spike between the wet folds of his valve. His voice caught with static every time the edge of a ridge dragged over his external node. And for all that his processor had started to go hazy and disconnected, the calipers in his valve flexed and bore down against nothing at all as if trying to drag that heavy spike inside.  
  
"Fffrag, yes!" he hissed, curling his fingers hard over the edge of the table in front of him when a quick shift and a thrust had him impaled on that fantastically ridged spike. _Skids_. Primus-blessed Skids with the spike that caught against node clusters with everything backwards slide. Had he actually thought he wanted a break before this? It was _perfect_. The sensitivity born of other fingers and fragging sessions left his nodes swollen. The perfect target for every scrape of that deliciously modified piece of equipment.  
  
"H-Hnng!" he ground his dentae together and turned his helm, pressing his face harder against the tabletop as charge crackled up over his plating and a pool of lubricant and transfluid started gathering under his hips on the edge of the table. He slipped through it every time Skids used the grip on his thighs to yank him back onto his spike. And for as processor-meltingly nice as it all felt, he was too hot, too sensitive, and he overloaded quickly, calipers clenching and a little lubricant spurting out around the spike inside him.  
  
The spike that Skids continued to grind into him. Rodimus howled against the table when the fingers on his thighs tightened, denting, and he was yanked back at an angle that allowed Skids to ram against his ceiling node with every push. His calipers continued to hitch and spasm, bearing harder down around the intrusion, and the rapid push and pull of Skid’s spike was splattering lubricant between them. A few low, heady moans finally sounded from behind him - or maybe Rodimus was only just how aware of them - and he trembled through another, smaller overload of his own when Skids peaked and filled him.  
  
Rodimus was dimly aware that another puddle had formed under his chin and jaw, oral solvent dripping from the lips he’d left open in a desperate attempt to pant for cooler air. There was a squeeze against his thighs before he was eased back onto his feet, and he didn’t bother to swallow the whimper that crawled up when Skids slid out, the ridges scratching over his nodes an amazing sort of excruciating now.  
  
There was more fluid dribbling down his legs, adding to the slick puddle under his pedes. Really, it was a miracle Swerve continued to let them back in here for this considering the mess they always made. Then again, Rodimus liked to think the talkative bartender got his fair share of…compensation, all things considered. But as far as Rodimus could tell, Swerve didn’t mind, and there was time yet before the bar would close.  
  
He continued to lay there, tense, for a few kliks while his armor pinged and cooled. But when he wasn’t immediately assaulted by more hands or spikes (or mouths, bless whoever’s talented glossa _that_ had been - Rong, maybe? Ring?), he slowly allowed himself to relax again. His intakes continued to hitch sporadically, and his valve rippled every so often, but he dropped his helm against the table and let the white noise of tinkling glass and bar chatter drown out his own thoughts. That was kind of part of the point of all this, after all, right?  
  
When he was touched again, he twitched, briefly startled, before tipping closer to the warm fingers against his crest. It was a light touch, a thumb stroking almost absently against that spot, and he nudged a little closer until the rest of the hand cupped against his helm. Ultra Magnus did not, however, lift his optics from the datapad he was perusing. He’d only actually given the scene his open attention a small handful of times that cycle - and one of those moments had been to move his datapads a little further out of range of the, mmm, action, as it were.  
  
When Rodimus moaned faintly and nuzzled into his palm, he finally turned his head, slipping his fingers down to cup under Rodimus’s chin, tilting it up. It took a few moments for Rodimus to online his optics again, albeit dimly, and another klik before he was focusing properly on the other mech. A large thumb passed over his lipplates, and he parted them, eagerly taking the tip of the digit into his mouth to suckle. It was as explicit as Ultra Magnus usually got on these occasions. At least, after the initial act of dragging Rodimus to the bar and tying him over a table.  
  
That was usually followed by a short spell with the captain’s second crouching over his back, crowding his smaller frame and murmuring into his audial. Nobody was ever entirely sure what he said, but it always ended with Rodimus trembling and snapping his panel open. And Ultra Magnus straightening and setting up on the other side of the table to work while Swerve’s patrons did as they pleased with their overwrought, overenergized captain.  
  
It was an arrangement the crew had long since stopped questioning and started simply enjoying. And nobody could deny that the affair left most of the ship in high spirits for several cycles after the fact. It was as effective a means of boosting morale as it was for Ultra Magnus to deal with Rodimus’s…impressive libido.  
  
Whining softly, Rodimus scraped his dentae against Ultra Magnus’s thumb. Not biting, not really nibbling, just a light scraping that he chased quickly with his glossa. And when Ultra Magnus went back to his datapad without retrieving his digit, Rodimus shuttered his optics and hummed his own tired pleasure around it.  
  
As consumed as he was with his task, he wasn’t immediately aware of a certain quiet falling on the bar. He didn’t realize anything was amiss until Ultra Magnus shifted, straightening from that almost-relaxed posture he let himself settle into when he had the dual pleasure of work and seeing his captain properly tended to. Onlining his optics again, Rodimus frowned slightly, letting the thumb slip from his mouth, but when he attempted to turn his head, Ultra Magnus caught him by the jaw, forcing him to keep his helm straight and his optics forward.  
  
He wasn’t allowed to look. That was part of the deal. Oh, he’d gotten good at recognizing his crew, but even if all it would take was, say, one well-placed bite to his shoulder guard to recognize Inferno, he still wasn’t allowed to crane his helm around and check. So he listened as the heavy fall of pedes grew closer until he could feel another mech behind him, close enough to sense without touching. And Ultra Magnus was watching intently over his prone form.  
  
When the first touch came, it was…not what Rodimus had been expecting. Fingers laying at the back of his helm and stroking all the way down the line of his frame, a soft scrape of warm metal against his plating that lifted just before reaching his aft. He couldn’t help it - he shivered.  
  
For a long moment, the silence reigned, but worse than that was the lack of touch. He could still feel the mech there, hadn’t heard any retreating steps, and Rodimus had finally noticed how _quiet_ it had gotten. Not just behind him but everywhere, all over the bar. He could practically feel the attention they’d drawn. And sure, that had been pretty common the first time or two, but the crew was used to it now. Aside from a few mechs who just liked to watch - Perceptor, for instance, or so he’d heard - they didn’t usually attract this much attention at once anymore. It was just another day on the _Lost Light_ for…  
  
For the crew. For the mechs who had been with them from the start.  
  
As if he could hear Rodimus making the connection, Ultra Magnus glanced down, meeting the wide-optic stare he’d developed with something considerably more stern. And calm. One of them was calm. Thank Primus. He didn’t open their commlink and ask, but Rodimus understood the look well enough.  
  
They had safeties in place. A word. A gesture. Ultra Magnus would never have let him do this without them.  
  
Was he going to use one?  
  
Or was he going to let _Megatron_ take his turn?  
  
Venting slowly, Rodimus mulled that over for a klik. But then there was a thick digit running along the slick seam of his thigh, and he groaned, pressing back towards it.  
  
Well, that answered that question.  
  
Ultra Magnus continued to stare for a moment before he released Rodimus’s jaw and picked his datapad back up.  
  
The finger drawing along his seams lingered before trailing inward, skimming against the edge of his valve. And for a brief moment Rodimus was…okay, not self conscious, not really. But he _was_ vividly aware of how it must look after being worked over by most of the bar’s regulars, smeared in fluids from Primus-knew how many bots and haloed by dents and clashing paint transfers.  
  
But Megatron didn’t comment on any of that. Didn’t comment on anything at all, actually. He just continued to drag achingly light touches around the slick folds of his valve until a new trickle of lubricant had started and a thready, needy noise slipped from Rodimus’s vocalizer.   
  
He didn’t have to turn his head to know that fragger was smirking.  
  
And when two (oh, Primus, is that how thick they were?) thumbs pushed inside of him and spread his valve open, he ceased to care about Megatron’s expression.  
  
"Hah!" he gasped, ducking his helm and shivering hard enough to rattle his armor. The ex-Decepticon’s thumbs relaxed, letting his valve clench around them before they slipped deeper and pulled him open again. A higher pitched noise skittered out of Rodimus’s vocalizer and he squirmed, tugging slightly at his wrists, but the ties held as well as they had all night, and he was left gaping open to Megatron’s stare.  
  
He could feel his calipers attempting to cycle down, held open and apart by the pressure of Megatron’s digits, and lubricant had begun production in earnest, soaking hotly over Megatron’s hands.  
  
And that was it! For kliks that’s all he did! Just stood there and held his valve open while he wriggled and his calipers hitched, and eventually Rodimus pressed his forehelm hard against the table.  
  
"C-C’mon already!" he demanded. _Demanded._ Because that was absolutely what that sound was, despite the high pitch and the ring of static and the aching need in his voice.  
  
When Megatron chuckled behind him, that sound was low, dark, and it crawled under Rodimus’s plating and made his valve pulse around those digits.  
  
And then they slid out, and he was left clenching at nothing.  
  
He heard the click of another panel opening, but the loss of contact still had him frustrated, and he groaned against the table, rocking his hips insistently back. That was, until a heavy arm curled around his hip, tugging him the short distance the ties at his wrist allowed until his aft was pressed flush against hot plating. A large pede slid between his before kicking out and forcing his stance wider, pushing him up onto his toes to maintain his position, and he didn’t realize he’d been stripped of all movement below his helm until that was relieved from him as well.  
  
Large fingers, slick with his own fluids, curled under his jaw and forced his helm up until he was left staring at Ultra Magnus. Ultra Magnus who, at some point, had lifted his own helm and was staring back. No, Ultra Magnus was never one for explicit public displays of his own doing, but Rodimus recognized that dark-optic look. He trembled, venting hard when the wide head of Megatron’s spike nudged just between the folds of his valve, parting without penetrating.  
  
He didn’t have a chance to demand anything else of him, however, before the larger mech was suddenly pressed against his back, lips skimming against his audial in a way that made his core temperature climb. He tried to shove himself further back onto the spike teasing at his rim, but Megatron simply tightened the arm around his hips and held him still.  
  
"You will watch him while I spike you."  
  
The order growled over his audial receptor, and Rodimus dropped his mouth open to pant again. When the silence stretched with only his own heavy breathing and a room full of cooling fans to fill it, he tried to nod his head, stopped by the strong curl of lubricant-wet fingers.  
  
"Y-Yes," he finally rasped.  
  
He was rewarded by the thick head of Megatron’s spike pushing forward, piercing into him, and he tried to arch, to twist, to _anything_ that might assist with some of the burning stretch. But frag it all, it was _good._ He had enough processing power to wonder what it would be like to try and take this spike without a few joors of stretching and overloads to relax his valve first. The thought made him groan, low and deep. And when the head popped in, he shouted.  
  
Despite how dim or unfocused his optics got, they remained trained on Ultra Magnus’s face while he accepted Megatron’s spike, taking in all the subtle shifts of his optic ridges and the corners of his mouth that gave away the intensity of the blue mech’s attention.  
  
Then Megatron was thrusting, and Rodimus lost his ability to pinpoint subtleties.  
  
"F-Frag! Yes! R-Right there- _ah!_ "  
  
He shuttered his optics once when the charge and the heat and the pounding, insistent press of pleasure threatened to overwhelm him, and the fingers against his jaw had slipped, smearing lubricant against his face, and then tightened, jerking his helm further back.  
  
"Open them," Megatron snarled, stilling inside of him until he’d forced them dimly back online, vision wavering before settling on Ultra Magnus again.  
  
He keened when the pounding rhythm resumed, and every node cluster Megatron rode over sent frantic pleasure pinging across his sensor net and had his valve spasming around him. Smaller whines and whimpers were easily overridden by the heavy churning of fans and the obscene _slick_ and _squelch_ of Megatron’s spike slamming in and out of his overworked valve.  
  
"O-Oh Primus, I- frag m-me," Rodimus caught himself babbling, staring a little wildly up at his second. "I-I’m gonna..! M-Mega…Ma- _Magnus!_ "  
  
Two hard thrusts later, Rodimus’s vocalizer shorted out midway through a shriek, and he was only vaguely aware of Megatron snarling in his audial again before hot transfluid was being pumped into him. And then forcing its way back out around Megatron’s spike to splatter down their thighs and the floor when there was no more room for Rodimus’s valve to contain it.  
  
He all but slumped in Megatron’s grip. And if he weren’t so spent, so consumed by the aftershocks of pleasure working through him in a loop of sensory feedback, Rodimus might have been surprised by the almost-gentle way his helm was set back down. He did notice when Megatron slid his depressurizing spike back out, however, as it caused his vocalizer to whine uselessly and resulted in another flood of lubricant and fluids drooling out onto the floor from between his shaking thighs.  
  
Ultra Magnus’s hand lifted, stroking gently against his crest again, and he was vaguely aware of his second and the co-captain exchanging words of some kind, but his frame was ringing, and he was veritably punch-drunk on the post-overload high. It took his wrists being untied for him to come back to himself somewhat, and that was only courtesy to the deep, red-hot throb that rushed into the cables and joints running from wrist to shoulder, the punishment for being held tight and taunt for so long.  
  
The burn settled deep, but he welcomed it and tipped unsteadily into the mech behind him when he was pulled upright. He shuddered when gravity did its part and more fluid poured down his shaky legs, adding to the quivering mess he’d turned into. A few kliks went by of him shivering and blearily watching Ultra Magnus tuck datapads into his subspace before he realized that wasn’t who was holding him steady.  
  
Rodimus cycled his optics to try and focus them as he tipped his helm further back, staring silently up into Megatron’s impassive face. He couldn’t come up with a single witty retort or snappy one-liner to throw at him. Not before Ultra Magnus stepped around the table and took his weight over instead.  
  
Megatron nodded shortly to the Second-in-Command before stepping aside, and Rodimus let that trail of thought go for another time. Preferably after he’d been through the washracks and had recharged through the better part of his shift. For now he dropped his helm against the edge of Ultra Magnus’s shoulder guard and let the larger mech steer him out of the bar.  
  



End file.
